


See What I've Become

by derriere_le_miroir



Category: Metal Gear
Genre: Disturbing Themes, Explicit Language, Gen, MGSV, One Shot, Speculation, The Phantom Pain, Violence, pre-release
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-05
Updated: 2014-06-19
Packaged: 2017-12-17 18:42:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 8,793
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/870770
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/derriere_le_miroir/pseuds/derriere_le_miroir
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Since I keep writing speculative drabbles for MGSV, here's another collection of one-shots. Lots of disturbing imagery as I dive into the darkest depths of Big Boss's mind, you've been warned.</p><p>All ficlets written before the full release of MGSV, so a lot of stuff probably isn't canon compliant.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Phantom Pain

The pain was unbearable. Jack—no, not Jack, Jack was dead— _Big Boss_ bit down so hard on his bottom lip until it began to bleed, rolling his eye back in his head and convulsing, struggling; and all that was left of his once impressive weight was trying to get away from the source causing so much _hurt_. It felt like—

"John!" Ocelot called, but he couldn’t even hear him, so he addressed someone else. "—You! Help me out here!"

It took three grown men to hold him down, and another minute for the others to give up for now, removing the prosthesis from the recently cut open stump that remained of the man’s arm before even having had a chance to properly attach it.

Big Boss gave a deep, animalistic growl, fists and feet lashing out aimlessly at the staff as he fell back into the sheets of the hospital bed, panting heavily. His arm, bleeding, nerve endings laid bare.

"Fuck!" He hissed, punching the mattress in frustration. Ocelot’s hand was shaken off when it touched Big Boss’s shoulder; the man was hardly even coherent right now—only a few hours after his rescue—and nobody could really blame him for that.

But he needed the arm. He knew that—Ocelot had gone through so much trouble procuring state-of-the-art technology like that. According to Cipher, it’d take at least another 50 years until anything like this was available on the open market.

"Do you want anesthe—"

"No," Big Boss interrupted him immediately, almost out of breath. “No more of that. What about the—" He gestured weakly at his head, and Ocelot shook his own.

"I told you, it’s too much of a risk," he said, and the other man grit his teeth, sucking in air through them. “The debris is stuck right in your frontal lobe. It’s best to leave it as it is, or do you want to become a drooling, mindless idiot?" He grunted a reply, but also understood that Ocelot was probably right, and that he had bigger problems. That arm, for one.

"No anesthesia," he reiterated, firmly. “I want to be awake. I want to know what happens to me."

Ocelot nodded solemnly, and gestured the staff to restrain him, again; this time using leather bindings in addition to their own manpower, which they needed much more of than anticipated.

He screamed through the whole procedure, but one hour of that was still better than nine years of numbness and not feeling anything.

***

"It’s done."

By the end of it, he was a wreck, both physically and mentally, though he liked to pretend that the difference compared to his earlier state was only subtle. They were telling him something about physiotherapy and how it would take a lot of time and practice to properly use the prosthesis, especially given that there was no sensory feedback. He was supposed to feel nothing. And yet…

Eye half-lidded and tired beyond words, he just looked up at Ocelot, who hadn’t left his side ever since they escaped that hell on Cyprus, the Princess Mary’s hospital. He didn’t even know where in the world he was now, much less which hospital, but did it matter?

"I… wasn’t aware," he said, wearily, the weight of a thousand dead lives ingrained in his voice, “That a missing limb could hurt so much."

"That’s what they call ‘phantom pain’, I believe," Ocelot offered, his hand covering another one still made of flesh, still living. Big Boss’s dark blue gaze remained on his furrowed face with the slight stubble and that worry around his eyes, and for the first time he noticed – _Adamska, you haven’t aged well, what happened._

They were young men once, full of life and boundless passion. That time seemed so far away now, he could hardly remember it. _Tselinoyarsk, 1964…_

"I call it," he said coldly, his dead, metallic hand slowly and with some trouble curling into a fist, “Fucking with the wrong person."


	2. Cleansing Flames

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Cleansing flames is the only way to repent,_   
>  _renounce what made you._

Sometimes, he saw things that made no sense to be there at all.

Why there were a couple white flower petals floating in the air behind Ocelot almost every time he talked to the man, he would probably never understand, but it was starting to unnerve him. There were no flowers around, not in the Afghan desert, and most certainly not on Diamond Dogs’ new base, so where did they come from? He stared even more intently at them, eye narrowed, hoping that maybe they’d go away or turn out to be something different after all—

"Boss?"

"…Yeah?" His response was preceded by a significant delay, and as if on cue, Ocelot looked behind himself, over his shoulder. Then back at Big Boss, brows drawn tighly together into a frown, the same expression he gave him everytime when he—apparently—zoned out during a conversation. He didn’t even need to ask anymore, _did you get what I just said_.

"Nevermind. I guess I’ll go over these plans with Miller one more time."

Not questioning his mentor’s mental absence, Ocelot chose instead to carry on with business and continued down the hallway, professional as always despite the constant jingle of his spurs. He kept the drama and idle chitchat to a minimum these days, and when he felt that the person he was currently dealing with wasn’t very talkative, there were usually two options: ignore it and move on, or make them scream. Obviously he couldn’t go for the latter method, so that left the first option. Big Boss acknowledged not for the first time that he’d grown up a lot, and only very rarely did he catch glimpses of the overzealous, attention-starved kid he’d first met in Russia twenty years ago, like when he was playing around with his revolvers whenever he was in deep thought, idly twirling and spinning just to have something to do with his hands.

…Twenty years ago. Still hard to believe that it had really been that long.

He forced himself out of his own nostalgic thoughts. When he looked ahead, the petals were gone.

***

Sometimes, he saw things that made perfect sense to be there.

He’d found himself in the field of flowers where those petals originated almost every night, following the years after that fateful mission. The time he’d spent in a coma was a blank, and after he awoke, he hadn’t at all been willing to fall into any kind of deep sleep again, clinging to his own consciousness, so that left him with mostly dreamless periods of ‘resting his eyes’, as he liked to call it. This time, though—this time, he must have drifted off, because there was that bittersweet, cloying scent. He knew where he was before he even looked around, eye wide open.

It was different this time. The Stars of Bethlehem still appeared as bright and healthy as always, swaying gently against his body clad in black, but the sky was dark and overcast, and a slight dribble was starting to come down, hitting his face first when he reclined his head. How very quaint. It had been the same for thousands of nights, thousands of flowers, thousands of gunshots: a brilliant, clear sky, illuminating Her purity and the blood on His hands.

Perhaps he’d just forgotten what the sun looked like. He spread his arms, waiting for the inevitable, and that was when thunder began to roar for the first time, preceded by a sharp flash of light, cold and cutting.

"There’s a storm coming up."

He sighed. He didn’t remember her saying that, but it was a dream, so of course she’d adjust her reaction to different variables, just like that damn AI. He looked behind himself without turning around, and to his own surprise, he felt…

Nothing.

"There is nothing left inside me now. No hatred, not even regret."

He’d lost count on how often he’d had to listen to that speech now, burned into his consciousness, much like the image of her, just standing there in her endless, tragic beauty, pouring her heart out to him without him being able to do anything or object. He remembered how, on some occasions, he’d wanted to undo his choices at least in his dreams, by throwing the gun down and demanding answers, but she’d either freeze in place or start all over again. The gun would be back in his hand before long, and whenever he attempted to walk away, he’d be right back here in this field within minutes, facing his mentor, demanding him to finish his mission while she punched him square in the jaw. He must have grown numb to it at some point, the endless loop of his own misery which he couldn’t escape, night after night after…

"And yet sometimes at night, I can still feel the pain creeping up inside me. Slithering through my body, like a snake."

Did they really have to repeat this over and over again for the rest of his life? Did he have to continue living with a phantom from the past? She’d both made and unmade him, and rejected him in the process—why couldn’t he do the same?

"I’ve never talked that much about myse—"

"Stop."

She did. More rain started to fall, and to him, it felt almost cleansing. Turning around, he had decided that this time, he would be the one to pour his heart out, and she had no choice but to listen. It probably made no difference, but he was so tired of being reduced to silence, because it was always about _her,_ and sometimes he did wonder if she had ever—ever—considered what kind of burden she had shouldered him with, passing everything she didn’t want to deal with anymore down to him.

"Why… are you still here," he drawled, both hands, artificial and living, clenched tighly into fists.

"You abandoned me. So why won’t you go away already? I did what you wanted me to do, so leave me alone."

As he began to slowly pace and circle her, he thought he could see her expression twist into something even more sorrowful, but it was hard to tell with those dark, wet strands of hair obscuring his own view.

"Jack," she said, sounding like a broken record.

"Don’t you ‘Jack’ me!" He growled. He was mad. Who would’ve thought he was capable of emotions at all, anymore. “Jack died here, twenty years ago! He’s _gone._ Just like you are, just like all these phantoms I’ve been seeing. Why is this happening to me, Boss? Why does it never stop hurting? _Why_?"

As usual, she had no answer for him. She just sadly repeated his name, like a plea, “Jack."

He violently shook his head, and again the dark sky was illuminated by lighting.

_I refuse. I refuse. I won’t be hurt by you anymore. I won’t let you hold me back anymore. I cannot forgive. I don’t want to forgive._

"I live my own life, and you aren’t part of it anymore. I am no longer bound to you or your expectations of me. Do you understand? I am my own person, and I will make my own choices. No matter where they take me—any place is better than this one."

"Jack." Now she sounded outright distressed, and the storm just seemed to get worse the longer he went on.

“ _Any place,_ " he spat venomously, much like his namesake and emphasizing his point. “I would sooner take hell over this _heaven_ of yours." Roughly and suddenly, he plucked some of those white, innocent flowers out of the ground, crushing them in his hand, hard as steel and shining bright like crimson.

She stared at him, forlorn, but apparently had nothing more to say, unlike him. There was so much he wanted to get off his chest, that he wanted to fling at her, but of course he knew that it would still fall upon deaf ears. She never listened.

But there were so many others who listened to him now, even when he never said a word. He didn’t have to.

"It’s time," he said, with finality. She nodded. She understood.

"Goodbye, Jack," she said.

"Goodbye, Boss."

They’ve spoken their farewell, and lighting struck one of the trees, immediately setting it ablaze, followed by rumbling thunder, drowning out everything else. Fire spread out at an impossibly rapid pace, burning down everything in its path, and the petals turned into glowing, floating sparks, carrying the destruction he summoned far and wide. The rain, although it hadn’t let up, made no difference; it seemed almost like it served as fuel, causing the flames to grow in height, flaring up even more, reducing the beautiful flowers to ashes faster.

Before long, everything burned, including her. She started screaming, that one agonized, terrible, ear-splitting sound he had hoped he’d never have to hear from her, and he covered his ears, shut his eye, then sank down to his own knees. He was the only one spared.

( _cleansing flames cleansing flames repent repent renounce_ )

Waiting for the pain—it was like his heart was being ripped right out of his chest—to pass seemed like an eternity, and it was not yet over when he began to hear voices, again—voices that should not be there. Maybe he’d woken up?

But when he opened his eye again, both arms going limp, there they were—flames in the shapes of humans, with burning eyes, staring straight at and into him. More phantoms. Or were they demons?

_Look who’s finally decided to join us. The worst of all of them._

_We’ve been waiting for you, Jack. What took you so long?_

_Your throne is ready to be claimed, your majesty._

He knew them. Voices of the past, now faceless. A seven foot giant, once deadset on turning the Cold War into a hot one. The man who’d claimed to be his brother, intent on creating a haven for soldiers through fear. The last one an extremist, believing that for deterrence to be effective, the consequences had to be showcased to the world.

Behind them, more flames turned into humanoid shapes, hundreds, thousands of them, one for each flower he had burned down, one for each life he had taken. All staring at him, that pitiful figure with tears streaming down its face, surrounded by the ashes of what once was, of what he had willingy destroyed to make room for better company.

They began to chant, disjointed prayers and mantras that were hard to understand, and one of them held out its fiery shadow of a palm to him.

_Come. Come. Come, come, come._

_Burn it all, burn it all._

_All hail the king. All hail the king!_

An unfeeling, bloodred hand slowly reached for it.

 _Welcome back_ —

"Boss."

He blinked owlishly, turning towards the source of that voice just now, and found Kaz sitting across him, looking at him through the dark lenses of his aviators, with an expression on his face he might have almost mistaken for worry.

"…What?"

"Are you listening? You just sort of…"

"I…" He had no answer. He couldn’t even remember what he’d been doing the past few hours, drawing blanks. Or was it days, even? Could still feel those flames licking at his fatigues—

"I’m fine. I was just lost in thought for a bit."

"Aah…" Kaz didn’t sound like he believed him, but supposedly there were more important matters than Big Boss’s mental state to discuss. “Anyway. Our dear doc, he’s still refusing to cooperate, which is kinda problematic. I… know you probably won’t like what I’m gonna tell you next, but Ocelot suggested that—"

He cut him off with a dismissive wave of his hand.

"Go ahead."

"…Really?"

"Yeah."

Kaz awkwardly rubbed at the back of his neck with the one hand that remained. This wasn’t easy, not even for him, Big Boss could tell. “You sure? I mean, we used to be friends and all."

"Used to, Kaz." Big Boss said, sounding remarkably unperturbed despite the unspoken interrogation techniques he had just approved of. “If he’s not working with us, he’s working against us. It’s that simple."

"…If you say so."

He joined Ocelot and Kaz in the interrogation room not long after. When he looked at Ocelot, the flower petals were back, but this time, they were burning. This time, they were watching.

He welcomed it.


	3. Ground Zero

He stared at the small package in his hands, covered in fresh blood, tiny LED light blinking, indicating that it was alive. In the background, he could hear children crying and screaming, medics desperately trying to save a life as well as the roaring engine of the chopper, but his mind barely even registered any of it, the constant _beep beep beep_ of the bomb cutting through his consciousness and drowning everything else out.

_… How._

That was all he could think of, in that moment. He turned it around, and found the peace symbol on the other side of it, and he could only perceive it as mockery. _For peace._ Right. Achieving peace by planting bombs in people, using them as Trojan horses. Wonderful.

It had been a trap all along, Paz’ capture, Chico following her, the nuclear inspection by the UN… all conveniently timed. The realization washed over him like ice water, and he felt like a deer caught in headlights; time began to slow down, the aftermath of everything playing out in front of him…

_I fell for it._

"We’re losing her!"

"Paz! No! _Please!_ ”

Gaze dull, Big Boss lowered the package, slowly turning his head to look at the girl who wasn’t gonna make it, even after enduring all of that… they’d parted on bad terms, true, but he’d never really held any of it against her. He thought she was staring back at him, or through him; sheer terror in her eyes, perhaps even regret—but most certainly unbearable pain. Struggling to survive. She wanted to live. Who wouldn’t?

_I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, please—_

Perhaps he shouldn’t have come back for her. Cut his losses right then and there, before anything worse happens, but he wasn’t that wise, and instead preferred to cling to his humanity under the pretense of doing something productive with his time. His radio was still dead, even after demanding a status update from Kaz, and he was expecting the worst.

_I’m sorry, too._

He turned away from her, gutted open like an animal after Chico had told them what was up—god, he’d barely been able to control himself, _just a kid, remember_ —and tossed the bomb out of the chopper, into the ocean, where it hopefully couldn’t cause too much damage when it detonated.

"ETA five minutes. Boss, the line’s completely dead… can’t reach anyone—"

"Paz, _no_ …!" Chico was still sobbing, still desperately trying to keep the blood from flowing out of her with his bare hands, getting in the way of the medics attempting to stitch her together and save what there was left to save, but they soon gave up, shaking their heads, and Chico went wild, tears streaming down his face. “What are you doing! Save her!"

"Chico," Big Boss growled, lowly. He exchanged a look with one of the medics, and nodded. There was little they could do for her now, and even the strongest painkillers they had on hand hadn’t proven to be very effective… well, except one, maybe.

"Boss—please, you got to do something! Save Paz…" The boy, covered from head to toe in blood and filth, sucked in a startled breath when he saw Big Boss draw his gun from his holster, and remove the safety. “What?! No—stop, stop!!" He launched himself at the older man to wrestle the weapon from him, but was effortlessly pushed away, and caught in a very firm grip by another soldier, holding him back. He started panicking, trashing, screaming; a high-pitched, desperate sound that could make a man go deaf. Mercifully, one of the soldiers restraining him covered his mouth after a moment, muffling his protests, and keeping it there even when Chico bit into his hand, rabid animal that he was, completely out of his mind.

The man with the gun on the other hand remained eerily calm and composed, even as he leaned over to the half-dead girl on the gurney. She was already drifting away, but the pain of it all was still present enough to keep her here, and aware of what was happening to her, like an anchor. She must have known she wouldn’t make it out of this alive, that she was nothing more than an expendable tool, but maybe some part of her had hoped—somehow, against all odds—that a man would come and save her. A man like him.

But he wasn’t a savior. People died on either side, and caught between them. That was all he could do for her now, not out of vengeance, but out of mercy.

“Tenías razón. No hay paz en ninguna parte,” he told her, with the barrel of his gun pressed against her temple, his other hand holding her quivering one. “Lo siento.”

“Sí,” she said, weak voice barely audible, too strained from screaming so much. She closed bloodshot eyes, the beauty and clarity in them long gone. “Yo también.”

It was the first loss of many, he already knew.

***

Chico wouldn’t stop hitting and throwing insults at him ( _You monster! How could you do this! I hate you!_ ) for the remainder of their very short flight, but he stopped eventually when they passed the first piece of wreckage—though it could hardly even be identified as that, as it appeared more like a floating bonfire, illuminating the dark waves of the ocean around it.

"Oh… oh my god…"

Mother Base came into view, or what was still left of it—slowly burning down to the ground, great pillars of flames leaping high against the backdrop of the pitchblack sky. Every single strut was set alight, shaken by explosions and the distressed calls of his dying comrades. The structure itself was surrounded by boats that were obviously of military class as well as combat choppers that weren’t their own, bombing their home to hell and back with a barrage of flames, bullets and missiles that just wouldn’t cease. There were so many, at least three times their own manpower—

( _not your kind of people_ )

Everything was burning bright. He watched the command center crumble and collapse in on itself as they approached the main platform, burying some of the fleeing staff beneath it. He could hear their screams even over the all-consuming destruction surrounding them all.

All Big Boss could do was stare, unable to fully comprehend what was happening. A few hours ago things had still been all right—and now, everything was being torn down, reduced to ashes in an instant, and in the face of such overwhelming opposition, he already knew that there was nothing left to salvage.

Nothing at all. Their home… out here in the ocean, he’d been stupid enough to think they could have a place for themselves. But the world wouldn’t even let them have that.

( _joke’s on me for not believing_ )

"Boss! Boss, we gotta help them!"

There was little they could do, and part of him just wanted to jump out of the chopper and sink to the bottom of the ocean so he wouldn’t have to witness any more of this ( _it’s all my fault_ ), but instead he reached for his rifle in the back, getting ready. He thought of Kaz. He thought of Cécile, and Strangelove, Huey, Amanda; everyone he couldn’t afford to let down as long as there was still hope. They were counting on him. They’d given him their lives, their trust; and he couldn’t even provide a safe place in turn—couldn’t keep those goddamn bloodhounds away—

There was a slight tremble to his voice when he instructed their pilot to bring them closer, and down eventually. He was out of it, not able to process what was currently happening, as were the rest of the men currently with him. Big Boss tried to pick off as many enemy soldiers as he could from the chopper, but it almost made no difference. His hands were shaking too much.

"We’re gonna try and get as many out of there as we can," he said, over the radio.

"What about the base—"

"Forget about it. We have to save lives. Be on standby."

"Give me a gun!" Chico demanded, with a shrill voice, and was roughly shoved aside.

"You stay here!"

"But I—"

Again, he wouldn’t back off, latching onto Big Boss and his harness, trying to steal a weapon from him, and that was when the older man exploded. Suddenly, impulsively, he grabbed Chico by the collar of his bloodstained prisoner’s uniform with one hand, lifting the smaller body up and slamming it hard against one of the chopper’s steel walls. For a moment, he was struggling for breath, expression twisting into something genuinely terrified—terrified of that bulk of a man threatening to crush him.

"What do you not understand!?" Big Boss snarled, face only inches away from the boy’s. “You’ve been nothing but a liability so far! Need I remind you whose fault this is in the first place? You told them!" He shook him. Chico’s head hit the hard surface behind him. “You let your personal feelings interfere! You broke under torture! This isn’t a game anymore! Once all of this is over, you’ll wish I _would_ have killed you, I _swear_ —"

He tossed him aside, with more force than was necessary, and Chico yelped in pain when he hit the hard ground, breaking a rib. Big Boss stopped paying attention to him immediately, jumping out of the chopper even as it was still hovering over the ground, gesturing the few men he had with him to follow. Bullets whizzed past him, hitting their vehicle, and he fired a burst of his own.

Nothing mattered anymore. Just the fight.


	4. Diamond Dogs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"Start a war, fan its flames, create victims… then save them, train them… and feed them back onto the battlefield. It’s a perfectly logical system. In this world of ours, conflict never ends. And neither does our purpose… our raison d’etre."_

He was on the hunt.

Big Boss watched the scene playing out a couple hundred feet below his current position in silence and darkness. It was one he had seen dozens of times before as a soldier: civilians being dragged out of their houses with no small amount of violence, being rounded up, only to eventually separate families and shoot the adult men on the spot while the women and children started crying and screaming. Some tried to resist and protect their loved ones, but of course raising your hand against one of the heavily armed mercenaries was tantamount to pulling the trigger on yourself. They weren’t done dealing with the civilians yet when they started looting the rural village, going through every single house for valuables and incriminating evidence, and Big Boss knew from experience that they were already passing orders along that included setting fire to as many buildings as possible to make sure that nothing remained.

The reasoning for these apparently senseless acts of destruction was always the same—better burn everything to the ground than risk them joining the resistance. That, and it was a nice way of dealing a blow to the pride and efforts of the local militia, as well as a warning: give up, or more will die. Of course, the government liked to cover up such crimes committed by the PMCs they hired, and make it look like it was really the doing of the revolutionary army. That’s guerilla warfare for you—dirty, brutal, and mercy was definitely misplaced, on either side. You used whatever you could for leverage.

He lit himself a cigar as a chopper passed overhead, sharply cutting through the dark velvet sky like lightning, and ignited the engine of his motorbike. When the soldiers down below took note of the predatory revving in the distance— _somewhere up that plateau, go check_ —he was already gone.

***

He sped his vehicle of choice down the steep and crumbly slope, leaving a trail of dust behind him and attempting to drive right past the village, but he was caught almost immediately. Portable searchlights were trained on him, but they had a hard time following. Some men fired a couple warning shots in his general direction when he didn’t heed their demand at first— _stop right there!_ —and when they did, he did a sharp turn towards them, next bullet only barely missing a wheel. Right in front of them, with pretty much all available firearms trained on him, he slammed on the brakes and came to a halt.

Nothing happened, for a few moments, and he could feel the mercenaries staring at him in disbelief. The chopper from before was returning, at least judging by the approaching noise of rotorblades, and before long, it was hovering right above him, shining its much larger searchlight down on him, painting him a bullseye. He had effectively maneuvered himself into a very disadvantageous position, and obviously so—as an unknown factor in this whole mess, the mercenaries wouldn’t want to take any risks.

Big Boss lazily rolled the cigar from one corner of his mouth to the other, chewing on it. He lifted a hand—some of the men flinched instictively, cocking their guns—but he just used it to cast a shadow over his eye, looking up at the chopper.

Finally, a man stepped in front of the others, apparently in charge of the operation—but just as faceless. There were about twenty of them at this point, but he knew there were just as many scattered across the village, still busy. About hundred fifty to two hundred civilians, depending on how many they had executed in the meantime.

"You! Hands up!" The top dog bellowed. “What’s your outfit!"

Big Boss didn’t reply immediately, and neither did he present his palms, as requested. His prosthetic went for the for cigar instead, removing it from his lips to breathe out a cloud of smoke. The nonchalance he displayed unnerved the men that were present, and he could read their body language well enough to know that some of them just wanted to shoot him right then and there, but they’d be in deep trouble if they did so at their own discretion. As if on cue, they were signaled with another gesture to hold their fire.

"Are you deaf? Identify yourself at once, or else—"

"Why don’t you take a closer look, Captain," said Big Boss.

The man looked about ready to just stop bothering with him altogether, snorting derisively, but eventually curiosity got the better of him and he took a few careful, wary steps towards him, searching for a brassard, or any kind of insignia on his leather jacket, never lowering his rifle.

"Diamond Dogs," he said to himself more than anyone else. “Never heard of." He kept looking for something else, likely weapons, but found none. All in all, Big Boss probably didn’t appear like a professional mercenary.

"Is this a joke?"

"He might be working for the rebels," one of the men in the background offered. That was the next best conclusion to jump to, of course.

"A tracking dog, all on his own?" He probably didn’t believe it himself, but it was a good enough excuse to dispose of this irritant without having to deal with unforeseen consequences later.

Another moment of silence passed, then he turned away and said, “Shoot him."

"I wouldn’t do that if I were you," Big Boss spoke before any moves were made against him. Apparently that—and the confidence he exuded—were enough to confuse the men further.

"And why’s that, huh?"

"Well, for one," Big Boss continued, straightening his back and placing the cigar back between his lips, “I’m a hunting dog. And we always—"

A bullet suddenly whizzed past him, piercing the air sharply and right through the Captain’s skull.

"—hunt in packs."

After that, it was a flurry of activity, and panic broke out amongst their ranks when their leader’s lifeless body collapsed in on itself. Before they had the mind to actually shoot Big Boss rather than trying to spot the sniper that had just opened fire on them, he had already revved up the engine again, and was barreling at full speed right through their group, and into the village.

Behind him, a convoy of jeeps and motorcycles followed—hundreds of headlights flashing on, quickly and mercilessly approaching, mowing down anything in their way with wheels and bullets; a concert consisting mainly of roaring engines, violent gunfire and dying men. The chopper was taken down with surface-to-air missiles, and came crashing down on them, exploding into a bright fireball.

They stood no chance, and were buried beneath that wave of uncompromising bloodhounds within minutes.

***

The men that remained quickly took note of the commotion, and made the mistake of emerging out of the houses, trying to fend off the invaders—they, too, were greeted with bullets and no questions; and not a single one was fired by Big Boss as he made his way through the village.

"Citizens!" He announced, over the chaos that followed in his wake, addressing the villagers that remained—mainly women and children, and a couple grown men that had gotten lucky.

"Stand up and fight! The oppression of your people ends today! Reclaim your homeland, and avenge the deaths of those that died protecting it!"

He stopped at the town square, where the majority of civilians were still being held, surrounding by no more than three armed soldiers, and they crumpled into a heap one after the other the very moment they attempted to aim their weapons at Big Boss. Right on mark, as usual. The women behind them were cowering in fear, weeping and holding onto their children protectively, desperately trying to shield them from harm.

A boy was looking up at him curiously, clinging to his mother’s shoulders, no older than ten.

"Avenge your loved ones! Avenge your husbands, your parents, and join us in our fight! No one should have died in vain! You can and will liberate yourselves!" He went on, and only moments later he was approached by a young woman in fatigues, carrying a sniper rifle that was half her own size. Big Boss flicked his nearly completely burnt down cigar away, and held a hand out to her, helping her onto his bike. She said nothing, just tightly held onto his waist with one arm, while the other cradled the heavy rifle like it was her own child, staring at the group in front of them.

"Very good," he said. She nodded. He gestured to a pair of jeeps right behind them, shouting, “A couple of you stay here to clean up the mess and instruct the civilians. The rest comes with me—we can do one more tonight."

"You heard what the Boss said! Line up the casualties! Make sure we got them all!"

"Who… are you?" One of the women eventually spoke up in her native tongue, voice timid. Big Boss replied in the same language, “Whoever you want me to be."

"Saladin," her son murmured against her chest, barely audible. “Mother. Is he Saladin?" Big Boss couldn’t quite make out the answer to that, but it was unimportant, in the end—he had so many names already, and people were allowed to see in him whatever they wanted to see, choose their own names for him. The girl at his back lightly nudged him, and he thought he could make out a grin from the corner of his vision. He grunted.

"Impatient, huh," he commented, and slowly let go of the bike’s clutch, driving out of the village, leaving the victims behind only to find some more.

***

At dawn, they had liberated one more village, and established contact with the resistance, joining forces with them. Big Boss stood on the roof of one of the adobe huts typical for the region; a warlord overseeing recent developments of the current war, and his own army, while enjoying another smoke.

 _You need to give them weapons_ , he had told the the leader of the local division of the militia, _it’s impossible not to involve them._ _Either they die like dogs by your opponent’s hand, or they die fighting for your cause. What do you prefer?_

They had eventually agreed, with no small amount of teeth gnashing, so that’s what they were doing—training the civilians how to fight. The basics of guerilla warfare. How to operate an assault rifle. That included the children, of course. By the end of this, they would be battle hardened veterans, and unable to live normal lives again.

He mulled his over for a while, rolling the cigar between his fingers, but his thoughts were interrupted when a certain someone tugged at his arm, demanding his attention. Quiet’s left hand formed a victory sign—index and middle finger spread to a V—and she brought it to her face, making a downwards gesture in front of her own eyes.

_Sleep._

Big Boss shook his head.

 _Sleep!_ She gestured again, and he relented finally, with a sigh. Did he look that terrible?

 _You too_ , he gestured, and this time she shook her head.

_I watch._

He frowned, not entirely happy, but all too aware that arguing with her was pointless, and softened up when he was roughly pushed into the direction of stairs to find himself some place to rest, but the moment he set foot on the ground, he was surrounded by a bunch of children that apparently just finished their very first lecture. They had about a thousand questions to ask him, it seemed like.

_Will you bring us peace? Please bring us peace!_

_I heard you are Saladin, are you Saladin?_

_Am I a soldier like you now?_

_When can I kill the men that killed my father?_

_Can you teach me how to use an AK?_

"Get back here, all of you! You’re supposed to eat, not bother people!"

A couple of his men took it upon themselves to collect the kids and make sure they busied themselves with more worthwhile pursuits than asking questions Big Boss wasn’t too keen on answering. He’d check up on their progress later and take his time explaining things, but not just yet. There were more important things on his mind, and even those had to wait.

In some secluded corner of that turbulent battlefield, fueled by the never ending war machinery, amidst children and corpses and stolen futures, he eventually found some rest, however fleeting.


	5. صحبت نمی کنم.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Quiet speculation. Implications of torture, rape, and abuse.

  
_Be quiet._

She’d heard that phrase so many times in her life, mostly when being with men; standing next to one, walking behind one, being held down by one. This time was different, though—this time, for some unfathomable reason, they wanted her to talk, asking questions in different languages she may or may not knew the answers to, but no word came over her lips, just gasps and drawn out, pained moans.

There were footsteps, resounding in the mostly empty storage room refitted to inflict suffering. The electric current subsided, and her body stopped shaking when the red-hot rod was removed from her skin. Despite being deprived of her sight, she could feel a man’s gaze resting heavily on her, and somehow, even after all this time, that was more painful than any way of torturing her they could come up with, but she’d never let them know.

Her head lolled to the side. Two men talked something in English, one of them sounding very displeased, but she couldn’t understand everything, and then she just stopped listening altogether.

***

Having lost all sense of time, it felt like hours; sitting in her dimly lit and filthy cell to wait for the next session, though it was probably only one or two when she heard someone approach, the same footsteps from before—firm and with purpose. She remained where she was, leaning against a wall with her knees drawn up to her chest, and didn’t look up when the rusty door was unlocked, or when the man came to stand right in front of her.

She bit down on her bottom lip, and swallowed down that familiar sense of dread an disgust. She was prepared—or so she thought, until a heavy piece of black fabric was dropped into her lap.

"That’s the right one, isn’t it? Whether you cover yourself up or not, it makes no difference to me."

He spoke in slightly accentuated Farsi and lowered himself down to her level, while she reluctantly grasped at and examined the fabric made of cotton and silk. It was an article of clothing she was all too familiar with, or had been, some time ago, before it had been taken away from her.

He sat down, next to her, but kept a respectable distance, his gaze directed elsewhere. From the corner of her vision, she could make out his profile, and recognized him as the man some others had referred to as Boss on the battlefield, where he had proven to be an unpredictable beast, and impossible to hit.

Even now, she didn’t know what to make of this, an unexpected gesture of kindness. Feeling the soft cloth between her fingers again, after longing for it for so long to shield her from other’s eyes again, she would have thought she’d put it on immediately, and yet she did nothing of that sort. She mulled that over for a while, until Big Boss’s gravely voice cut through the silence again.

"I heard all about it," he said. "When they found out what happened, they blamed you. Called you the devil’s whore."

She grasped so hard at the fabric it almost tore, her calloused lips pressed into a thin line.

He continued, “It doesn’t matter how much you reveal of yourself. What you say or don’t say; do or don’t do. People will see what they want to see.” He paused, shifting into a more comfortable position on the ground, and she found herself listening to him despite writing him off as just another selfish pig earlier. But she couldn’t remember anyone, much less a man, speaking to her like that, and curiosity got the better of her.

"They don’t care to look deeper and find out what made you the way you are now. Isn’t that right? You’ll get blamed, one way or another," he mused, slightly inclining his head towards her without directly looking at her. "For things that were out of your control. That you couldn’t have done differently. In war or wherever else."

It was hard to imagine that this was the same man who had captured and ordered her interrogation earlier. She thought again, and perhaps that was just what he meant. For a while, he said nothing, before fully turning to face her with the words, “Look at me.”

She did so, instinctively, and was surprised to find his lone blue eye staring straight into hers, not distracted for even the fraction of a second.

"What do you see?" He asked.

 _A monster,_ were the first words to form in her thoughts when she looked over his scarred face, and remembered with what cruelty he had slaughtered all those soldiers back at the village. But now she wasn’t so sure.

_How much you reveal of yourself… I was hiding…_

_Because…_

"I’m afraid, too."

_I didn’t want to be hurt._

"But just hiding won’t stop people from hurting you. You need to pick up a gun—I think you realized that already."

She registered movement and, looking down, she saw that Big Boss was offering a hand to her; the one that was not yet crimson and artificial. “I can give you better weapons, and teach you to use them more effectively,” he said, the first of many tempting promises leading to even more misery, but she did not care. “You don’t have to be a victim any longer. It’s your turn to observe others and pick them out as targets.”

Like countless others that had come before her, she wasn’t able to resist, and without thinking about it placed her hand in his, hoping beyond hope that this one was not like all the others. His grip was firm, but not crushing.

_Learn to have faith once more. Not in Allah, but in man._

"Will you join me?"

A simple question she was able to answer, and she nodded slowly, in something of a daze, gazing up at him. He did the same, expression softening before letting go of her hand, and moving to stand up. She suddenly and impulsively let go of the fabric still in her lap, and instead made a grab for his wrist, which momentarily caused him to freeze and regard her with a frown.

"Ah," she made a sound, trying to figure out how to use her voice. He waited patiently.

"I am…" Her words sounded awkward even in her own ears, and not like they were coming from her.

"Quiet."

"Quiet," he repeated, sensing that those were the first and last words he’d ever hear her speak, which caused a brief smile to appear on his lips that was, likewise, one she wouldn’t get to see often.

"But still alive."

 


	6. illustration - cleansing flames

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Commission.  
> Artist: [Doubleleaf](http://doubleleaf.deviantart.com/)  
> [High Res](http://i.imgur.com/DtN8ffc.jpg)


	7. Covalent Bonds

He always remained in the background, that guy, rarely taking the stage unless it served a clear purpose; a selfless purpose, acting as the proxy for someone else. That remained true even when Kaz lost sight of him, fairly sure that Ocelot wouldn't come barging in heroically, rescuing him from certain death. No, that honor was reserved for someone else; the last transmission reaching him the long awaited _V has come to,_ and Kaz knew that this was it, the moment he was caught off guard, his heart leaping in his chest, a flood of relief and disbelief clouding his senses.

His own mission turned into a failure, and Ocelot and their Diamond Dogs would not be coming for him, but that was all right, it was a mutual, unspoken understanding that the safety of V had the highest priority. And he knew too much.

Kaz would die here, without talking. But he was too stubborn and proud to do so right away, thinking about how disappointed the man that owned his life would be. He laughed when they tortured him for information and tore off his limbs, picturing them as they laid mutilated in a puddle of their own blood when V rose from his grave and descended on them like a storm; victory, vengeance, venom.

_Soon. He will prepare him._

But then he came, months too early, the legend they kept telling their men about, and Kaz realized it was all Ocelot's fault the moment he returned his aviators to him.

_You bastard._

*

He was ready, done. Ocelot hovered in the background when he was loaded into the chopper, instructing men, while Kaz held onto his Boss's arm, and his conscience, drilling into him what he had to do, what had to be done so that the combined efforts of Kaz and Ocelot during these past nine years hadn't been in vain. _Lead us. Avenge us._ Big Boss listened, but said nothing. Neither did Ocelot.

Back at base, in the infirmary, Big Boss's robotic hand touched his face again, and a muted _Sorry_ formed on his lips, for taking so long, Kaz knew, for losing track of time. He returned to his men soon after, their inspiration, leaving him to the two medics and Ocelot.

A minute passed, and sitting up Kaz spat, "You."

Ocelot gestured their medical personnel to leave, and strode closer. Kaz adjusted his aviators, shoving them up his nose.

"He could've died."

"Same as you," Ocelot replied, calmly. Kaz snorted, shooting him a glare through the tinted lenses of his glasses.

"I can't believe you picked these up. How thoughtful of you."

"Had to make sure you get to keep at least one thing, Miller," Ocelot said, and pulled a chair out of a corner, closer to the bed, to sit down. Kaz sighed, and deflated; he had already aired out most his anger during their trip back from Afghanistan to Mother Base, throwing all of his fury at Big Boss and hoping he'd absorb it, so it was difficult to stay mad, at least for now.

He'd never quite understood Ocelot's motivations, not entirely. He doubted that would change now.

"It was a close call," Ocelot began to explain, without even being prompted—like he knew exactly what was on Kaz's mind. "Between him waking, you disappearing, and some Cipher agents bothering me. He was right on board, as expected. There was nothing else that could've prepared him better for what lies ahead of us."

Kaz looked to the side. Ocelot was a professional teller of half-truths.

"How long has it been?" He asked, having lost track of time himself.

"Almost a month."

"And what did you tell him?"

"Ten days, since we lost radio contact," said Ocelot, with a smile that didn't reach his eyes. _Too busy to say hello_. _Kaz is fine._ "And that you'd last three more, tops."

Kaz scoffed, "Please. I would've lasted another month." The same probably couldn't be said for his remaining limbs, but details.

"I know," Ocelot said. The implied _I wanted to put some pressure on him_ went unspoken. After all, they weren't dealing with any one soldier here—it had been a trial by fire, like everything else, including their chance meeting in 1975, when Ocelot had rescued both him and the lifeless body of Big Boss.

Hiding them away, in Cyprus, and letting the world believe they were both dead, until the time was right.

"All thanks to your preparation, I guess," Kaz muttered, a hint of uncertainty in his voice, and Ocelot raised a brow at him.

"You should thank him. Everything I know," _techniques, spirit, even morals and mercy_ , "He showed me first."

"And that includes torture?"

"Naturally. When we were working for Cipher, together. And before that."

"Huh," Kaz said, thinking, absentmindedly touching the bandaged stump that now remained of his right arm. He'd been preparing himself for worst case scenarios such as this one these past few years—with Ocelot's help. They were among the few people that knew about Big Boss's location, and the exact coordinates of their new home. Always keeping the past in mind, he'd known from the beginning that he couldn't afford to break, should Cipher's agents capture him.

And he hadn't. Ocelot must've known that, too.

"So what now?" Kaz asked, audibly tired, and out of the loop given he'd missed an entire month.

"Now that he's here... Burial tomorrow, if you're up for it. The bodies we recovered from the old base, then what remained of your bodyguards." Kaz felt a sudden burst of anger flare up, but Ocelot continued, not giving him a chance. "Speaking of, we should find you some new ones."

"Those were our best men," Kaz gruffed, _and my friends._ He'd trusted them with his life, and they'd died protecting it, throwing themselves into the line of fire. Ocelot leaned forward, elbows resting on his lap.

"Well, I know at least one person that's better."

Kaz stared at him, eyes narrowing.

"I don't think so."

"I'm sure _Snake_ would agree," Ocelot lilted, "And seeing as you won't be going anywhere with that crippled leg of yours..."

Ocelot shoved his chair back and got up before Kaz attempted to deck him with his left arm, missing him entirely. _Unbelievable._

"I'm not gonna have you babysit me, for the record."

Ocelot gave a dismissive wave of his hand, not gracing that with another response, and getting ready to leave. He, much like Big Boss, had business to attend to—Mother Base didn't run itself.

"Rest up well, Kaz. For you, this is as much starting over from Zero as it is for him. You'll have to leave the past nine years behind you. The real fight starts now. We've just managed to even the odds." He turned, about to head outside.

"Ocelot," Kaz stopped him, firmly.

"Thank you."

_I mean it._ A man like Ocelot probably didn't hear genuine expressions of gratitude very often. And without him, none of this would...

Ocelot snorted a chuckle, then clicked his tongue, without looking at him. "Thank me by not losing your life. Or any more limbs. I'd hate having to carry you around."

"Oh," Kaz breathed, then yelled after Ocelot as he left the room down the hallway, "I'm sure _Snake_ wouldn't mind!"


End file.
